


Willing Sacrifice

by Ranni



Category: Avengers, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Attempted anyway, BAMF Clint Barton, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton-centric, Demon Summoning, Gen, Human Sacrifice, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Manipulation, Minor Violence, Somewhat successfully
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-24 09:25:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16172267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranni/pseuds/Ranni
Summary: Clint is okay with being used as bait, okay with being tied up and waiting for rescue as arranged. But when he realizes that the Avengers aren’t coming, it’s time to go ahead and escape. Unfortunately that's also around the same time that the bad guy shows up with a knife.--or--That time some people wanted to sacrifice Clint in order to summon a demon.





	Willing Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time Millyveil and I were looking at fanfic BINGO squares and I had the strange urge to fill "used in a ritual/sacrifice". Four hundred months later, I wrote this.

 

*

Thanks to every American action adventure movie ever made, people always think it’s easy to knock someone out with a blow to the head.

Clint allowed himself to be kidnapped with just enough of a protest to keep up appearances, but the idiots in Halloween masks were bound and determined to knock him out. They kept hitting him on the back of the head with a pipe—people _always_ bring a goddamned pipe for that kind of job—until he gave up and feigned unconsciousness, making sure to dead-leg one of the guys straight in the crotch as they manhandled him into the back of a van.

And of course it’s a white, windowless van, because creativity and individualism are dead.  Long has Clint Barton harbored the irrational hope of getting stuffed into a different type of vehicle, but aside from a very memorable birthday kidnapping by Tony Stark involving a motorcycle sidecar and a speedboat, it has yet to happen.

At some point in between then and now they nailed him with something like chloroform, and now he has a headache from that, lumps on the back of his head from the attempted knock-outs, and is fairly pissed about both. Despite all the rest of their incompetence, the fuckers have him tied down tight, his ankles are pulled uncomfortably far in opposite directions, his body taut and stretched painfully across the floor, which is naturally made of the coldest, hardest cement on Earth.

And he’s also naked, because of _course_ he is.

“Are you guys Scientologists?”

Clint hasn’t decided how he wants to play it yet, if he’ll be the fearful, pliant prisoner or a defiant, plucky Avenger. It all rather depends on how long Cap thinks this needs to play out before the team swoops in for a dramatic rescue. They’ve been suspiciously quiet on the comms since the kidnapping— _shockingly_ quiet for Tony Stark—and if his hands weren’t tied down Clint would be seriously tempted to check the unit buried in his ear.

The kid with the goat mask does a doubletake. “We’re _Satanists_ ,” he says incredulously, gesturing to the black candles, the pentagram on the wall, obviously offended that Clint could think otherwise.

There are four of them, all young, all wearing masks. The obvious leader is Goat Head, whose mask has red eyes and a tiny pentagram on the forehand. The second boy is tall and painfully thin, wearing a mask of what’s probably supposed to be the Devil but looks more like a grinning Guy Fawkes painted red. The lone girl wears a busty corset and a Devil eye mask; it's homemade and covered with red sequins and feathers that occasionally drift to the floor as she totters clumsily around the room on too-high platform heels, setting out more candles. The last is a burlier guy that hovers near the doorway, his body language a little glum, maybe embarrassed because he couldn’t buy or make a proper devil’s mask and is stuck with something that suspiciously resembles Darth Maul from Star Wars.

 “What are you going to do to me?”

Clint’s voice wavers a bit on the last word, and he shrugs internally. Scared captive it is, then. Not as much fun to play, but he’s been in the game long enough to trust that his gut instinct is usually the correct one.

“Your death will bring forth the glorious coming of Lord Paimon, who will smite our enemies and give us the knowledge of all things!” The grandness of the speech is only slightly undermined by the fact that it's delivered by a teenager wearing a goat mask. “We will be made kings of the earth!”

It’s all so stupid that for a moment Clint Barton is actually incapable of forming a response, an amazing feat in itself.

He turns his head to the side as much as he can, pressing it his ear to the floor and trying to feel for the comm. Maybe it’s broken. Maybe they’d found it when he was unconscious. There’s no way Tony would let a declaration like _that_ pass without a comment, and what’s more, these stupid kids have just announced their intention to murder him, but Steve Rogers, who has come bursting into rooms in full Captain America mode for much milder threats has remained suspiciously silent.

Guy Fawkes begins smearing some sort of symbol on Clint’s naked torso with a paintbrush, using light, tickling strokes that set his teeth on edge. Clint wrinkles his nose at the coppery smell—it’s definitely blood, and the white feathers stuck to the side of the jar offer a pretty big clue as to the body it came from.

“Let us read now from the Demon’s Prayer,” Goat Head orders, then huffs in sharp exasperation when no one else responds other than their masked heads tilting almost comically in confusion. “You fools! You know not what—” Goat booms, then scoffs and pushes his mask up to reveal a rather pimply chin and pouty mouth. “Really guys?" he whines in his real voice. " _Nobody_ brought their copy of the Demon’s Prayer? This is _serious_.  What do you think Mr. M is gonna say about—God _damnit_ , Courtney!”

The Sexy Devil has stumbled again on her ridiculous heels, sending several candles toppling against each other.  “Sorry, sorry!” She kneels to right them and Clint sees desperation in her scrambling fingers and eagerness to please in her eyes, wide behind her gaudy mask. Another red feather floats down and lands on the bloody rune drawn on his stomach and Clint blinks at it, suddenly positive that this is the most ridiculous situation he’s ever found himself in.

“My copy is in the van,” Guy Fawkes offers, hooking a thumb toward the door. “I can go get it if you want.”

“It has to be perfect,” Goat complains. “We need to—” He stops and flinches suddenly, startled by a buzzing cellphone. He pulls the mask the rest of the way off to squint the screen, and the kid can’t be more than twenty, and looks even younger with the expression of alarm that flickers over his face. “Oh shit, guys, headquarters has been attacked. We need to summon Paimon quickly, so we can get His legions over there to help fight!”

It wasn’t supposed to come to a fight, not today. Today was supposed to be about subduing the Mickey Mouse arm of a larger operation, one they’d take down at a later date, after these underlings were in custody and ready to roll over. But some wires have gotten crossed somewhere, somehow, and there’s a faint _boom_ in the distance and all the kids’ heads turn comically toward a rattling window as Clint begins working his restraints in earnest.

 

*

The bonds are too tight, aside from the one around his right foot, which was poorly done and almost loose. One strong pull at the right moment will free his foot—though exactly what he can do with one free, flailing leg is anyone’s guess. A few more hours of careful, patient twisting would evenutally loosen the other knots, but Clint isn’t willing to wait that long anymore. The team is fighting somewhere, and Clint needs to be there instead of here, and the fastest way to do that is to get one of the assholes to let him go.

The boys hurry out to fetch the rest of the supplies that some Wikipedia article suggested were necessary for the ritual, leaving only the girl behind with Clint, and that’s perfect. That’s just the way he wants it to be. She's the weak link, and it's not because she's a girl—years of partnering with Natasha Romanov drove that sort of sexist notion out of him ages ago—but because Clint knows her.

Well, not _her_ exactly; he only met Courtney an hour ago—if the girl standing to the side and chewing nervously on her lip while her friends beat him ineffectually over the head counts as a true meeting—but Clint still knows her. He sees an unfamiliarity with high heels as she crosses back and forth around the room, relighting candles that keep flickering out. He recognizes the too-long hair still parted in the middle, the out-of-place flat Midwest accent, her sadly hopeful black lipstick and nail polish. Clint grew up among a hundred kids exactly like Little Courtney No-Name, kids that never quite fit in with the other country mice and fled to the nearest city only to be disappointed when they didn’t quite fit in _there_ , either. She’s probably around nineteen years old but looks sixteen, and Clint Barton, world traveler, assassin, and former fellow country mouse can paint her portrait right on top of her.

But he doesn’t need to. Clint can talk his way into and out of anything—as a child he placated an angry, alcoholic father and as an adult could spin a story that could make even the stone-faced Phil Coulson laugh. And most memorably was the time he met the Black Widow, who shot him immediately, and Clint bled and talked and bled and talked until she ended up dragging his dying ass back to SHIELD herself. 

Sad little Courtney really doesn’t stand a chance.

“It wasn’t supposed to end like _this_ ,” Clint says, his voice as small as he can make it.

She ignores him, and that’s alright; it’s easy to act tough when wearing a mask. He knows that better than anyone.

 “He said it would be good. That I was gonna be a hero.”  

He sees her hesitate and glance over from the corner of his eye and fights the impulse to look back. To reach too far too fast will push her away, but with a little more patience she’ll start to hear his words but imagine only herself, before finally weaving herself right into the story.

“You know, that’s all I ever wanted to be. Someone that…” Clint spreads his hands helplessly, as much as he can in his bonds, and whispers “…. _mattered_.”

Her lighter clicks at a candle near his head, and Clint lets himself flinch in pretend terror instead of trying to grab for it—a lighter and one free foot is only slightly less useless than having just one free foot. She doesn’t move away this time; instead shifts directly into his eyeline, looking down at him uncertainly.

 “And he said I could be. He said. He _said.”_ Clint’s voice quivers on the last word and it’s perfect. He could probably even work up some actual tears if he weren’t so freezing cold, naked as he is on this godforsaken cement floor.

“Who said?” she asks in her little girl voice, and it’s over. He has her.

“Phil.” His big eyes meet hers, projecting _sad sad helpless sad_ with everything he has, pleading for the help and absolution that only a girl named Courtney can possibly provide. “He’s my boss. He said I could be a hero and help people.” Clint draws a shaky breath and then, with a rush of inspiration, adds a woeful, “Just like Captain America!”

Thank God the comms are broken and Tony can’t hear this. Or Natasha. They would never let it go and the combined force of their endless teasing would eventually drive him to suicide.

“I just wanted to do something great. Be part of something special," he nearly sobs, and throws up a mental fist pump as her breath catches and she reaches toward him with a soft, pitying “Oh!”

_Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, you’ve been a wonderful crowd._

 “Maybe we—” she starts to say, but Clint never gets to hear the rest.

 

*

The other masked jackasses return at that very moment, carrying books, another mason jar full of even more chicken blood, and a huge fucking knife. And they aren’t alone, and the thrill of Clint’s brief triumph fades a few degrees.

Partly because the new guy isn’t a pliable early twenty-something, he’s older than Clint by a good bit, but mostly because the guy isn’t wearing a costume, but a rather dashing three piece suit. He isn’t embarrassed, isn’t posturing. He’s there as himself, bare-faced and proud.

Clint also has a standard response routine for men just like this—men who look like high school principals and mid-level human resource officers, men who sit behind desks and develop frown lines and paunches and have heart attacks at fifty. For them Clint always plays the rube, the dumb hick that makes the paper pusher feel uniquely smart and powerful. He brought out the same act for Phil Coulson, polishing himself on the man’s thousand dollar suits and not noticing that Coulson played him right back, becoming so bland that he practically evaporated into the beige walls while Clint kept dialing the folksy charm up to unbearable levels. One day both had finally grown exhausted of the whole charade and met one another properly, an entire year into their partnership.

But he doesn’t have enough time now to build up Hick Clint properly, and this guy doesn’t look as pliable as Courtney, won over so easily by a few soft sentences. There’s only time to be the person that most people can’t stand. Hawkeye has bitter, knowing eyes that people don’t like to meet, a rueful twist to his lips instead of a big _aw shucks_ smile, a cruel edge to his taunts. Clint drops the persona of the scared captive and allows the dark glower—what Tony had gleefully dubbed his “murder face”—to cast itself across his features. Sexy Devil startles at the change, sitting back on her heels and frowning.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he tells The Suit. “Now we can just get on with things.”

“And that’s always so much nicer, now isn’t it?” The Suit wags his finger good naturedly as he scolds, “Your friends are giving mine a bit of trouble, but Paimon will bring with him eighty legions of nightmares and we’ll soon take care of that.”

“So I hear.”

The Suit’s smile is wide and full of too many teeth. He leans over a bit to study the bloody runes, and Clint’s fingers curl instinctively and his heart speeds up, but he forces himself to relax again. No. It’s too soon.

“Dustin,” The Suit says grandly, straightening up and snapping his fingers at Goat, “bring me the book.”

Goat hurries to do so, most of the bounce gone from his step. Nervous about the noises from outdoors growing closer and louder, perhaps, or maybe just sad at having his bit of power over the others usurped by the arrival of their boss. There’s a much louder booming sound and everything rattles ominously, half a dozen candles toppling over.

“Oh maaaaaan, Courtney worked so _hard_ setting those up!” Clint winks at the Sexy Devil, who shoots him a wounded look, betrayed to realize that their brief bonding interlude earlier had all been an act. He shrugs at her as much as possible with his arms pinned down. _It goes that way sometimes, kiddo_. “Gosh, guys, the demon won’t wanna come if the candles aren’t perfect!”

“Lord Satan!” The Suit reads, raising his other arm and adopting his deepest voice. “By your grace grant me, I pray thee the power to conceive—”

“So…what’s the scenario here, exactly? Is the demon going to be birthed through my body or manifest itself suddenly in a puff of smoke?”

The Suit pauses in his recitation, incredulous at being interrupted, as the kids exchange furtive looks.  

Clint laughs. “You have no idea, do you? Well, do you know how _big_ he’s going to be? Man sized? Elephant sized? What if he's _God_ sized? Are you sure this room is even tall enough?  Jesus, you guys are the worst Satanists _ever!_ ”

“Shut up,” The Suit snaps, then to his followers, “Don’t pay any attention to him; he’s nothing but a vessel that shall be dead soon enough.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to help you out here,” Clint insists, working his right foot against the rope more deliberately now that they’re beyond noticing. The skin of his ankle gives way, but so does the knot, a little bit. “I’m a real nice guy that way.”

“Lord Satan!” The Suit booms again. “By your—"

 “What if he’s super small?”

The Suit’s eyes are practically bulging out of his head, the vein on his forehead throbbing so hard that Clint can almost count the beats.

“The demon,” Clint clarifies unnecessarily. “What happens if he shows up and he’s so small that he can sit in the palm of your hand? What if he talks in a high pitched, squeaky voice? Would you be disappointed or just accept it?”

Clint Barton has no superpowers, though his eyesight and aim arguably come close, but he’s _always_ been able to find the seams.  People can be so polished and practiced that they can appear to have none, but Clint can always see them, can always find that place where a person has pieced themselves together, no matter how clever the patch, no matter how subtle the scar. And he’s always known the best way to wiggle into that weak point, to grasp the edges of a person and pull them apart.

The Suit is a ridiculously easy mark for Clint, who routinely uses people like the Black Widow and Nick Fury as a whetstone—he’s already flustered and sweating and irritated after only a few barbed jabs. He’d come strutting in here feeling important and gleeful, wearing his best suit to impress a demon, looking forward to commanding it. He was eager to feel powerful over something more than just these dumb kids, and the naked captive on the floor is ruining it with his smart mouth. There is nothing that a man like this hates more than to be made to look ridiculous.

“I said _shut up_!” The Suit thunders and for a moment Clint thinks he’ll throw a punch or swing a kick, which would be _almost_ perfect, but the moment passes without either happening. Clint blinks innocently back as The Suit gives him another warning glare and throws up his hand again. “I pray thee the power to conceive in my mind and to execute that which I desire to do—”

Clint clears his throat politely.

 The Suit grits his teeth and powers on rapidly. “—the end which I would attain by thy help, O Mighty Satan—”

“How many heads does our boy Paimon have?”

The Suit lowers his hand and snaps the book shut. “ _Goddamn you_!”

“I mean, I’m not a demonology _nut_ or anything…but I do know that some demons have more than one head. And I’ve always wondered—which head are you supposed to look at when you’re talking? The middle head? The _ugliest_ head? Do any of the other heads feel bad if you ignore them? I only ask because I thirst for knowledge.”

Then Clint hears it.

They _both_ hear it.

A snort. A low chuckle from behind the safe anonymity of one of the masks. Clint’s eyes meet The Suit’s and he raises one mocking, triumphant eyebrow.

_Gotcha, you old bastard._

The Suit rushes forward in howling fury, and that’s just the way Clint wants him, because angry men get up close and personal, and The Suit is certainly that, positioning himself with his feet on either side of Clint’s chest, emphasizing his own power and Clint’s apparent helplessness. The knife is in his hand, close enough that Clint can see himself semi-reflected back, distorted and ugly, his eyes two large black pools against a melting face.

“When the demon comes he’s going to—” The Suit leans closer, and as his center of balance shifts just-so the stars align and all Clint’s instincts and nerves sing out that the perfect moment has finally come.

“Motherfucker, the demon is already _here_.”

The rush of adrenaline is enough that he can suddenly rip his right leg free of the already weary knot, and he swings both of them up, catching The Suit from behind. He falls forward on top of Clint, whose mouth is open and waiting. It’s a kind of chemistry, doing this right, blending the correct amounts of surprise, violence, and blood to elicit the fear response he’s looking for in the horrified onlookers. Clint bites as deeply as he can, his legs pinning The Suit’s body against his own, then wrenches his own head to the side, tearing the skin away from the man’s neck.

The Suit’s scream is high and shrill. Sexy Devil is shrieking almost as loudly, while Goat stands with his hands up in a defensive posture, repeating “Oh shit. Oh _shit_.” in an almost conversational tone of disbelief.  Guy Fawkes stumbles against a wall retching into his mask, while Darth Maul takes the opportunity to just bug the hell out, running through the open door without so much as a glance backward.

He’s the smart one.

 “Knife,” Clint snarls, baring his bloody teeth in warning when The Suit does nothing but continue to scream and thrash away, his eyes huge and teary and frightened. “The _knife_ _!_ _"_

The man either gives it over or drops it near enough that Clint’s hand is able to snatch it up, The Suit rolling away the second the grip of Clint’s legs loosens. Clint makes short work of the rope around his left hand, cutting his wrist rather deeply in the process and not caring. 

“You’ve killed me!” The Suit wails, hand clamped against his spurting neck and staring at the huge amount of blood covering them both in stunned disbelief. “You’ve fucking _killed_ me!”

“Shut up.” Clint cuts his other wrist free and rises to his feet, ignoring the searing pain as blood rushes back into his limbs. The building shakes again, hard this time, and that’s _definitely_ the sound of an angry Hulk tearing through the hallways, the sound of Cap's shield bouncing off cement walls.

Goat Head makes an abortive movement toward the doorway before Clint intercepts him neatly and kicks him back with the others, and Clint isn’t even sure exactly what he plans to do when he takes a step toward them, brandishing the knife, before Sexy Devil screams “Please!”

He stops, and this time it _is_ because she’s a girl, and it doesn’t matter to Clint in the slightest how angry that would make Natasha. The image of a cowering woman with her hands up evokes a powerful sense memory that never fails to stop him short, one of the few things that can penetrate the red haze and pull him back to a place where he can get a handle on the rest of it.

He lowers the knife and doesn’t move any closer.

“Take off those stupid fucking masks.”

Shaking fingers reveal exactly what he suspected they were, average kids in their early twenties and late teens. Goat Head is crying and Guy Fawkes has vomit dripping from his chin. Clint tries to remember what he was doing at their age—a few years out of the circus by then and stumbling his way through life at SHIELD, already the murderer of dozens of people.

The walls rattle again.

“What is that?” Courtney—no longer the Sexy Devil, just back to plain little Courtney now, her mascara streaming down her cheeks—asks, her voice shaking. She makes a desperate mewling sound as the Hulk roars nearby, buries her face in her drawn-up knees.

“That’d be my eighty legions of nightmares.” Clint won’t hurt her, but he’s not above scaring her a little. Not above it at all. “And you’ll all get to see them. Just like you wanted.”

 

*

Jordan’s one of the few medics that Clint actually likes, and that’s the only reason he feels slightly ashamed as he warns “I will punch you in the goddamned throat if you touch me right now.”

The man steps back immediately, used to dealing with agitated SHIELD agents. He hands Bruce a package of wet wipes before beating a hasty retreat to the medical transport and a more amicable patient—namely The Suit, who’s still shrieking hoarsely about how he’s dying, how he’s been killed.

 “You should let them check your wrist over at least. It might need stitches.”

“It’s already stopped bleeding.”

Clint pulls at the area to prove his point, the wound gaping a little, black against all the red, feeling absurdly pleased at Bruce’s reactive grimace before turning his eyes back toward the warehouse. Of course they’d taken him to a warehouse, it’s _always_ an abandoned warehouse; Clint has yet to be abducted into a hotel or day spa. The others are still inside with the kids, taking forever, Steve probably giving an inspiring speech about how it’s a better choice to go to college or volunteer abroad than to decide to sacrifice people to Satan. Clint grits his teeth and wills them to hurry because he’s literally covered in blood already dried to tackiness and he’s starting to stick uncomfortably to Bruce in places. Clint grimaces unhappily and pulls away as much as the blanket will allow.

Bruce is still focused on his wrist. “It looks a little—”

“It looks gross,” Tony interjects from a safe distance away as he eyes Clint critically. “ _You_ look gross. You look like Mr. February from the Fangoria Seasonal Calendar.” Tony wrinkles his nose. “How much of that blood is yours?”

“Five percent?” Clint guesses, then remembers his ragged ankle and amends, “Ten maybe. Most of it belongs to Screamer over there. The rest is probably chicken blood.”

Tony pivots immediately on his heel and stalks off toward the warehouse, gagging theatrically.

“Hey, don’t you have spare sweats stashed on the jet or anything?” Clint calls to his retreating back. “Sitting around naked is not my idea of a good time, Stark!”

“ _Tell_ me about it,” Bruce sighs.

He’d Hulked out twice, which is once more than traditionally anticipated and planned for, and now he and Clint are stuck sharing the world’s tiniest space blanket over their laps. Bruce Banner is a good friend and nice enough guy, but his isn’t high on the list of naked bodies that Clint wants to brush up against.

Bruce pulls out a wet wipe and holds it under Clint’s nose until the archer has no choice but to take it. He scrubs it against his palms, making more of a mess than anything as Bruce watches the process out of the corner of his eye, heroically resisting the impulse to help, just handing over a second wipe as the first turns dark red.

 “I’m sorry we didn’t come like we were supposed to. The Big Guy was worried about you.  We all were.”

“I had things under control in there.”

It’s true. Other than being tied down and minorly threatened, Clint was in control back there. It’s out here, afterwards, where he feels unmoored, where everything feels wrong. It’s a feeling he knows all too well from ops—ops that don’t go bad so much as they don’t go _anywhere_ —nothing but a teasing build-up to a violence that never plays out, leaving him thrumming with too much anger and nowhere to put it. Now the sun is too bright and every sound too loud, and it’s a struggle to sit here calmly next to Bruce when all he wants to do is run back into the building and tear it apart. Instead of allowing his hand to shake Clint squeezes the wet wipes in his fist until the water and blood wells up between his fingers, then drops the ball to the ground with a sodden _plop_.

Bruce stares at it. “I know you did.”

Clint plucks a new wipe from the package and sweeps it up his arm, pausing as Steve emerges with people in tow, two gangly boys and one girl, still struggling with her too-high heels. As they climb into the back of the SHIELD transport her eyes catch Clint’s and immediately dance away as he sketches a playful salute.

Bruce shakes his head as the truck rolls away, spiriting the young wannabe Satanists off to their next adventure. “What a waste.”

“They wanted to see a monster. But then they didn’t like it very much when he showed up.”

“They never do,” Bruce agrees, and his hand comes down carefully on Clint’s arm, his thumb running up over the clean spot, the other fingers still in the tacky blood that covers the rest. “But it’s okay, because the monster never stays. It can’t. It always goes away again.”

“Yeah.” Clint drops the third wet wipe on top of the other two. “It does.”

Bruce hands him another. “Just get cleaned up, and everything will be alright again.”

_For a while._

The words go unspoken, but Clint sees them in Bruce’s eyes, along with something commiserating and tired and a little pitying. Bruce understands, just like Natasha does. So do Steve and Tony, to an extent. That it’s over and done, but only for awhile. That those darker skills and impulses aren’t just a mask that Clint takes on and off, that it isn’t a gear shifted in and out of. It’s something known and comfortable that he can sink right into easily, something that he has to fight free from later.

The monster is always willing to be to be sent away, because it’s always just a matter of time before someone summons it again.

 

 


End file.
